Wedding Night

  I feel a delicious shiver and text back:

  Coming.

  As I pick up my bag, I see that Fliss has texted again:

  Really, really think you should wait!!!! Save till hotel!!!!

  This is getting annoying. I only texted her for fun, not to get some stupid lecture. What’s she worried about, that we’ll get caught and somehow people will link her to me and her precious magazine will be brought into disrepute? I send a cross reply:

  None of your business.

  As I cross the lounge toward the washrooms, I’m actually trembling with anticipation. I knock twice on the third cubicle door, and as Ben sweeps me in, he’s already half undressed.

  “Oh God. Oh God …”

  His mouth is immediately on mine, his hand is in my hair, now he’s unhooking my bra and I’m wriggling out of my knickers. I’ve never moved so fast. I’ve never wanted it so fast. I’ve never needed it so badly in my life.

  “Shh!” we keep whispering to each other as we bump against the cubicle walls. Thank God they’re sturdy. We’re maneuvering into position as quickly as we can, Ben’s braced against the wall, we’re both breathing like steam engines, I can tell this is going to take about ten seconds.…

  “Condom?” I whisper.

  “No.” He meets my eye. “Right?”

  “Right.” I feel an extra spurt of excitement. We might make a baby!

  “Hey.” He suddenly pauses. “Have you got into any kinky stuff since we last did it? Anything I should know?”

  “A bit,” I say breathlessly, hoicking my skirt up farther. “Tell you later. Come on.”

  “OK! Give me a chance—”

  Rap-rap-rap-rap!

  The knocking at the cubicle door nearly gives me a heart attack, and I bash my knee on the cistern. What? What?

  “Excuse me?” a female voice is calling from the other side of the door. “This is the lounge manager speaking. Is there someone in there?”

  Fuck.

  I can’t answer. I can’t move. Ben and I eye each other in panic.

  “Could you please open the door?”

  My leg is still wrapped round Ben’s back. The other foot is on the loo seat. I have no idea where my underwear is. Worst of all, my entire body is still throbbing with need.

  Could we just ignore this lounge manager? Keep going? I mean, what can they do?

  “Carry on?” I mouth at Ben. “Really quietly?” I gesture to make myself clear, and the loo seat creaks. Shit.

  “If you don’t come out, I’m afraid I will have to use a passkey to gain access,” the voice is saying.

  They have a passkey to the loos? What is this, a fascist state?

  I’m still breathing as hard as ever. But now it’s with miserable frustration. I can’t do this. I can’t consummate my marriage with a lounge manager listening six inches away, the other side of the door, poised with a passkey.

  There’s more knocking at the door. In fact, it’s becoming more like a pounding.

  “Can you hear me?” the woman is demanding. “Can anyone hear me in there?”

  I meet Ben’s eyes ruefully. We’re going to have to answer, before she bursts in with a SWAT team.

  “Oh, hi there!” I call back, hastily hooking my bra up. “Sorry! I was just … fixing my … head.”

  My head? Where did that come from?

  “My husband was helping me,” I add, searching around for my knickers. Ben is pulling up his trousers. It’s over.

  Dammit. I can’t find my knickers. I’ll have to leave them. I quickly brush back my hair, glance at Ben, pick up my handbag, then unlock the door and smile at the gray-haired woman standing outside the door, together with a younger brunette sidekick.

  “So sorry,” I say smoothly. “I have a medical complaint. My husband has to help me administer a serum. We prefer privacy for the application.”

  The woman’s eyes run over me suspiciously. “Do you need me to call a doctor?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine now. Thank you, darling,” I add to Ben, for good measure.

  Her eyes drop to the floor. “Are those yours?” I follow her gaze and curse inwardly. My knickers. That’s where they were.

  “Of course they’re not mine,” I say with cutting dignity.

  “I see.” She turns to the sidekick. “Lesley, please tell a cleaner to come and refresh this cubicle.”

  Oh God. Those knickers are by Aubade. They cost forty pounds. And they match the bra I’m wearing. I can’t bear for them to disappear into the bin.

  “Actually …” I peer at the knickers as though suddenly noticing something about them. “On second thought … perhaps they are mine.” I scoop them up as nonchalantly as I can and examine a small rosebud. “Ah yes.” I stuff them in my pocket, avoiding the lounge manager’s steely gaze. “Thank you so much for your help. Keep up the good work. Lovely lounge.”

  “May we compliment you on the buffet,” adds Ben. He holds out an arm and escorts me away before I can explode. I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream. How did that happen? How the fuck did they know?

  “We were silent,” I mutter to Ben as we walk. “We were totally silent.”

  “I bet it was the old man,” he mutters back. “He must have shopped us. He guessed what we were doing.”

  “Bastard.”

  I slump into one of the plushy chairs and look around disconsolately. Why don’t they provide facilities for sex, anyway? Why is it all about surfing the Net and eating grapes?

  “Let’s have some champagne,” says Ben, and squeezes my shoulder. “Never mind. Bring on tonight.”

  “Bring on tonight,” I agree fervently.

  I check my watch again. Five hours, thirty minutes to go until we can put up that DO NOT DISTURB sign. I’ll be counting down every millisecond. As Ben heads to the bar, I pull out my phone and text Fliss.

  We were found out. Someone shopped us. Bastards.

  There’s quite a long pause—then her reply arrives.

  Poor you! Safe flight. Xxx

  9

  FLISS

  Educational. It’s an educational trip. Yes.

  I haven’t asked permission. I haven’t given warning. I haven’t sat in the headmistress’s study and been lectured. I feel that in this instance the element of surprise is crucial.

  “Mrs. Phipps?” Mrs. Hocking puts her head round the door of the classroom. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Ah, hello.” I smile as confidently as I can. “Yes. Just a small matter. I’m going to have to take Noah out of school for a few days. To a Greek island. It will be very educational.”

  “Ah.” She frowns off-puttingly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask permission from the headmistress—”

  “I understand.” I nod. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to ask the headmistress, as I understand she’s away today.”

  “Really? When were you planning to go?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Mrs. Hocking looks aghast. “But we only started term two days ago!”

  “Ah yes.” I act surprised, as though this hadn’t occurred to me. “Well, I’m afraid it’s an emergency.”

  “What sort of emergency?”

  A honeymoon-connected, sex-related emergency. You know the kind.

  “A … family crisis,” I improvise. “But, as I say, it’ll be a very educational trip. Incredibly educational.” I spread my arms, as though to indicate just how educational this trip will be. “Highly, highly educational.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Hocking clearly doesn’t want to give way. “Is this the fourth time Noah’s been taken out of school this year?”

  “Is it?” I act dumb. “I’m not sure.”

  “I know things have been”—she clears her throat—“difficult for you. What with your job and … everything.”

  “Yes.”

  We’re both staring at the ceiling, as though to expunge the memory of that time Daniel had just brought in his new set of big-gun lawyers and I burst into
tears at pickup time and practically sobbed on her shoulder.

  “Well.” She sighs. “Very well. I’ll tell the head.”

  “Thank you,” I say humbly.

  “Noah’s having his extra lesson at the moment, but if you come in, I’ll give you his bag.”

  I follow her into the empty classroom, which smells of wood and paint and Play-Doh. The assistant teacher, Ellen, is tidying away some plastic counters and she beams up at me. Ellen has a high-salaried husband in banking and is a great fan of five-star hotels. She reads the magazine every month and is always questioning me about the latest spa treatments and whether Dubai is over.

  “Mrs. Phipps is taking Noah on an educational trip to a Greek island,” says Mrs. Hocking, in deadpan tones that clearly mean, This irresponsible parent is going on a drugs-and-booze mini-break and is dragging her poor son along to get high on the fumes; what can I do?

  “Lovely!” Ellen says. “But what about your new puppy?”

  “My what?” I stare at her blankly.

  “Noah was telling us about your new puppy. The cocker spaniel?”

  “Cocker spaniel?” I laugh. “I don’t know where he’s got that idea from. We don’t have a puppy, nor are we getting a puppy—” I break off. Mrs. Hocking and Ellen are exchanging looks. “What is it?”

  There’s silence—then Mrs. Hocking sighs. “We did wonder. Tell me, has Noah’s grandfather died recently?”

  “No.” I stare at her.

  “And he didn’t have an operation on his hand during the holidays?” chimes in Ellen. “At Great Ormond Street?”

  “No!” I look from face to face. “Is that what he’s been saying?”

  “Please don’t worry,” says Mrs. Hocking hurriedly. “We noticed last term that Noah seemed to have … quite an imagination. He’s been coming out with all sorts of stories, some of which are obviously untrue.”

  I stare at her in dismay. “What other stories?”

  “It’s perfectly normal for children to live in a fantasyland at his age.” She’s deflecting me. “And, of course, he has had an unsettling time at home. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.”

  “What other stories?” I persist.

  “Well.” Again Mrs. Hocking exchanges looks with Ellen. “He said he’d had a heart transplant. Obviously we knew that wasn’t the case. He mentioned a surrogate baby sister, which again we thought probably wasn’t true.…”

  A heart transplant? A surrogate baby sister? How does Noah even know about things like that?

  “Right,” I say at last. “Well, I’ll have a word with him.”

  “Tread lightly.” Mrs. Hocking smiles. “As I say, it’s a perfectly normal phase. He may be attention-seeking or he may not even realize he’s doing it. Either way, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.”

  “He even said you once threw all your husband’s clothes onto the street and invited the neighbors to help themselves!” says Ellen with a bright laugh. “He’s got such an imagination!”

  My face flames. Damn. I thought he was asleep when I did that.

  “What an imagination!” I try to sound natural. “Who on earth would do a thing like that?”

  My face is still hot as I arrive at the special-educational-needs department. Noah has special after-school lessons every Wednesday, because his handwriting is terrible. (The official reason has “spatial coordination” in the title, and costs sixty pounds per session.)

  There’s a waiting area outside the door, and I sit down on the miniature sofa. Opposite me is a shelf full of pencils with special grips and odd-shaped scissors and beanbags. There’s a rack of books with titles like How Do I Feel Today? On the wall, a TV is softly burbling away with some special kids’ program.

  They could do with a department like this at the office, I find myself thinking. I wouldn’t mind escaping for half an hour a week to play with beanbags and point to the flash card reading Today I’m Sad Because My Boss Is a Git.

  “… I had an operation at Great Ormond Street.” A voice from the TV attracts my attention. “My hand was sore afterward and I couldn’t write anymore.” I look up to see a small Asian-looking girl talking to the camera. “But Marie helped me learn to write again.” Music starts playing, and there’s a scene of the little girl struggling with a pencil while a woman guides her. The final shot is of the girl beaming proudly while holding up a picture she’s drawn. The image fades and I blink at the TV, puzzled.

  Great Ormond Street. Is that coincidence?

  “My mummy is having a surrogate baby.” A freckled boy appears on-screen as the music changes. “At first I felt left out. But now I’m really excited.”

  What?

  I grab the remote and turn up the volume as Charlie introduces his surrogate baby sister. The piece ends with them all sitting in the garden together. Next up is Romy, who has had a cochlear implant, and then Sara, whose mummy has had plastic surgery and looks different now (but that’s OK), and then David with his new heart.

  The DVD doesn’t have a point to it, I swiftly appreciate. It’s a promotional freebie for other DVDs. And it’s just running on a loop. One inspirational, heart-churning story after another.

  I’m almost blinking with tears as each kid tells his or her poignant tale. But I’m seething with frustration too. Did no one think to watch this DVD? Has no one linked Noah’s stories to what he’s been watching?

  “Now I can run and play,” David is saying joyfully to the camera. “I can play with Lucy, my new puppy.”

  Lucy is a cocker spaniel. Of course.

  The door suddenly opens, and Noah is ushered out by the SEN teacher, Mrs. Gregory.

  “Ah, Mrs. Phipps,” she says as she does every week. “Noah’s making very good progress.”

  “Great.” I smile pleasantly back. “Noah, sweetheart, put on your coat.” As he heads to the pegs, I turn back to Mrs. Gregory and lower my voice. “Mrs. Gregory, I was just watching your interesting DVD. Noah has quite an imagination, and I think he may be identifying with the kids shown in it a little too much. Could you possibly turn it off when he’s sitting there?”

  “Identifying?” She looks puzzled. “In what way?”

  “He told Mrs. Hocking he’d had a heart transplant,” I say bluntly. “And an operation on his hand in Great Ormond Street. It all came from that DVD.” I gesture at the TV.

  “Ah.” Her face falls. “Oh goodness.”

  “No harm done, but maybe you could put on a different DVD? Or just turn it off?” I smile sweetly. “Thank you so much.”

  Some children think they’re Harry Potter. Trust mine to think he’s the star of a self-help DVD. As I walk out with Noah, I squeeze his hand.

  “So, darling, I was watching your teacher’s DVD. It’s fun to watch stories, isn’t it? Stories about other people,” I add for emphasis.

  Noah considers this for a long, thoughtful moment.

  “If your mummy has plastic surgery,” he says at last, “it doesn’t matter. Even if she looks different. Because she’s probably happier now.”

  My smile freezes. Please don’t say he’s told the teachers I’ve had plastic surgery and am happier now.

  “Absolutely.” I try to sound relaxed. “Um, Noah. You do know that Mummy hasn’t had plastic surgery, don’t you?”

  Noah’s avoiding my gaze. Oh God. What’s he said?

  I’m about to reiterate to him my complete lack of plastic surgery (one Botox session doesn’t count) when my phone bleeps. It’s a text from Lottie. Oh God. Please don’t say they’ve somehow managed it.

  We’re boarding. What do u think of the Mile-High Club? Could call baby Miles Or Miley xxx

  Swiftly I text back:

  Don’t be gross! Have a good one xxx

  I stare at my phone for a few seconds after I’ve pressed send. They won’t try to do it on the plane. Surely not. Anyway, the airport staff will have put in a discreet call to the cabin crew, warning them about the frisky couple in business. They’ll be on the case; I can relax.
>
  Still, my heart’s thudding. I glance at my watch and feel a renewed frustration at the totally crap travel options. One direct flight to Ikonos a day? It’s insane. I want to be there now.

  But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research.

  I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my diary yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).

  I’ve never read Lottie’s diaries before. I’m a moral person. Also: I can’t be bothered. But I have to know a little about this Ben guy, and this is the only source I can think of. No one will ever know what I did.

  Noah’s safely watching Ben 10 in the kitchen. I sit down on her bed, and Lottie-scent wafts up from the duvet cover: floral, sweet, and clean. When she was eighteen she wore Eternity, and I can catch a whiff of that too, coming from the pages of the diary.

  Right. Let’s dive in, quick. I feel very tense and guilty sitting here, even though I’m Lottie’s key holder and have a perfect right to be in her flat and she’s on a plane, miles away, and, anyway, if someone did walk in I would thrust the diary very quickly under a pillow and say, Just here for security reasons.

  I open the diary at random.

  Fliss is such a bitch.

  What?

  “Fuck off!” I automatically respond.

  OK, that was needless and immature. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There’ll be some explanation. I look more closely at the entry. Apparently I wouldn’t lend her my denim jacket to take on her gap-year trip.

  Oh, really? I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t just hand over my jacket which I paid for? I’m so outraged I feel like phoning her up right now and having this out. And, by the way, where has she written about how I did give her about six pairs of flip-flops and never saw them back and my Chanel sunglasses because she begged and begged?